


The Red Tornado In: 129th Street Blues

by Marshmallowmachinegun



Series: The Red Tornado! [2]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice Society of America (Comics), Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, golden age red tornado, scribbly and the red tornado
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 01:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14485911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marshmallowmachinegun/pseuds/Marshmallowmachinegun
Summary: A FIGHT WITH NAZIS! And a missing child!





	The Red Tornado In: 129th Street Blues

**_PROTECT THE WEAK!_ **

A loud crack! echoed in the street as a faded purple-gloved fist connected with the jaw of a man in a brown button-down shirt.

**_THAT’S THE MOTTO OF THE RED TORNADO!_ **

As the man fell backward, the neat stack of flyers he’d been clutching were thrown skyward, revealing the swastikas inked upon them.

Red Tornado’s helmet protected her from a rather pathetic retaliation by a second brownshirt, and her swift legs sent him flying away into the trash cans of the alley behind him.

**_THAT WEIRD CREATURE OF THE NIGHT!_ **

The mid-afternoon sun shone overhead, casting short shadows as the first Nazi made to take out the vigilante’s legs. She sidestepped him easily, her cape billowing like a bullfighter’s; with the added distraction Red Tornado wrapped heavy arms around the other man’s neck in an unforgiving sleeper hold.

**_THAT SKILLED DEFENDER OF THE INNOCENT!_ **

He staggered drunkenly, causing Red Tornado to begin losing her less than solid footing, when she stepped on a stack of the propaganda flyers and fell, bringing him down like a ton of bricks atop her.

The first opponent, a blond haired lad with an ugly sneer, recovered  from his fall and was ready to fight again; deftly removing a knife from his boot while surging forward to attack. A tiny child was suddenly at his right side, screeching, sinking the flat side of a nailed two-by-four into his stomach, swinging like a baseball batter. The knife clattered to the ground as he groaned, doubled over.

**_AND PROTECTING THE RED TORNADO ARE THE CYCLONE KIDS!_ **

Running in from the left was another child, hurriedly pulling a red hood over her head as she raced forward. Red Tornado was back on her feet, ready to scoop the Kid up in her arms.

**_TOGETHER, THEY PROTECT THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD FROM EVILS BOTH BIG AND SMALL_ **

After making sure the Kid was properly secure in her gloved hand, Red Tornado cocked her arm back. Aiming like a pro quarterback, she tossed the child at the astounded opponent, who fell to the ground entirely now, throwing his arms up defensively against the pummeling of the costumed child.

From behind, a wild haymaker came at the superhero’s helmeted head, doing more damage to the hand that threw it than to its intended target. She spun and, curving her arm up and about her as she did, landed a left hook directly on his temple. He stumbled back, but she pressed onward, slamming him again and again with her powerful gloved fists as she forced him back into the trash heap.

**_AND TO PROTECT THOSE CLOSEST TO THEM..._ **

As Red Tornado had her hands full with her enemy, the Cyclone Kids were handling their fiend just fine. Laughing up a storm, they were playing a game of “Five Little Monkeys” on the man’s prone body. Assuming he was down and out, he proved them wrong when he let out a loud roar. The Kids attempted to stumble away and he started to thrash, they both almost made it, but there was enough vinegar in his veins to send him shakily to his feet. He was quicker than they had anticipated and his bruised hand closed on the back of one of the Kids’ costume, yanking him back and up in the air.

**_THEY PROTECT THEIR SECRET IDENTITIES!_ **

The brownshirt was then attempting to yank off the Kid’s hood, and in turn the captured Cyclone was fighting back as best he could. But it was Red Tornado who separated them, throwing the man like a ragdoll with a viciousness that seemed almost personal.  

**_THOSE OF ABIGAIL “MA” HUNKEL_ **

To add insult to definite injury Red Tornado then picked up The Kid’s discarded board, slamming it over the man’s head. The splintering of wood and the crack of the impact rang loudly through the alleyway.

**_AND HER DAUGHTER SISTY_ **

The brownshirt crumpled, momentarily out like a light. The small girl ran forward then and, using the jacknife the Nazi himself had dropped, jammed an inch or so of blade into the fabric of his slacks. With a yowl, he leapt up and began running, along with his companion who had only just extricated himself from the trash a third time, back the way they had come, up the road and around the corner.

**_AND DINKY JIBBET_ **

The nearly exposed Cyclone Kid was safely back in his costume, all laughter and smiles as he flung lit firecrackers and other tiny explosives at the retreating men.

**_AND NOW..._ **

A whistle rang out from around the corner, accompanied by the sounds of police running toward the masked heroes.

**_TO PROTECT HER KID CRIMEFIGHTER COHORTS_ **

Red Tornado signaled to the two children with her hands, and they immediately ran away, in opposite directions.

**_RED TORNADO NEEDS TO GO ON THE LAM…_ **

The cops, slow enough the Cyclones had just enough time to disappear before they came around the corner, passed the villainous propagandists on their way toward apprehending the vigilante.

She ran into the alleyway as fast as her yellow-bootied feet would carry her, blue cape billowing behind. Beneath her steel pot helmet, she smirked.

 

* * *

 

“Scribbly, where’s your brother?”

Scribbly Jibbet kicked a can down the road, his hands shoved resolutely in his pockets. His brother Dinky was missing. Again. He’d discovered this fact when his mother, folding up the day’s laundry off the clothesline, had asked him an airy question, and he’d been unable to locate the little toe-headed terror anywhere in their apartment.

Scribbly loved his brother, but chasing after Dinky got very tiresome. He was always running off after school, and always turned up on his own later in the afternoon. Scribbly was kind of relieved at the resulting peace and quiet - nobody to cut holes in his best socks to make puppets, or put tacks on his chair, or any of the other myriad ways Dinky would find to torment him. But family was family, so he tried to lighten up and do what he needed to do. That was what big brothers were for, after all.

Having already checked the obvious places around the house, Scribbly was forced to check further outside in the neighborhood. He had tried the stoop first, hoping to see him out playing jacks, but saw it empty. He tried the back alley, but found only a group of men smoking cigars.

Scribbly decided to check the street corner, when a couple kids about Dinky’s age rushed past him. They were in a big hurry, and so Scribbly followed to the hippest spot for the local kids.

In a large raucous group, a circle of them sat playing. Their loud discourse, clacking marbles, and the rustle of baseball cards being passed back and forth clouded the air and dissipated high on the wood slats of the corner fencing. The sunlight that shone overhead glinted brilliantly, blinding Scribbly as he approached the game and its participants, and he tripped over the leg of one of the seated boys, his glasses clattering to the ground amidst all the detritus.

Bending down to retrieve them from among the many marbles of varying description, Scribbly asked whether any of the assembled children had seen his prodigal brother. He was met with shrugs.

“Dinky doesn’t hang around much no more” Three of the boys all made loud kissy sounds, “not since he got his girlfriend.” He drew out the last word in a mocking tone.

That was more information than Scribbly needed, so to dispel the awkward air, he coughed and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“So...where does he and this... _girlfriend_ like to play?”

The boys all said the same thing, the patch of dirt and trash can lids that was the baseball field. But when Scribbly arrived, the kids playing there were definitely not Dinky, nor his constant companion Sisty Hunkel.

There weren’t too many other options for Scribbly; at only five years old, Dinky was too young to go many places alone, and he never had money unless it was a special occasion. So it was only logical that he check in at Hunkel grocery. He had just as much luck searching there as he did anywhere. .

“Heya Scrib” came a familiar voice from behind the counter. It was his best friend Huey Hunkel, and he could barely be seen over the tall wooden bar. He hopped up and down on the balls of his feet, waving at Scribbly during each jump up.

“Whatcha doin’ here?”

Huey gave another enthused hop, using his forearms to pull himself up. Scribbly had a more difficult time getting on the bar, but soon enough they were both leaning comfortably on their elbows, within whispering distance.

“Uncle Gus said he’d gimme a dollar if I watch the store an don’t tell Ma where he went.”

As if to prove himself, Huey produced a neatly folded one dollar bill, which was big money and nothing to fool around with.

“Where’d he go?” Scribbly asked, kicking his feet beneath him.

“That’s the funny thing” Huey giggled “he never said!”

Scribbly rested his chin on his fist. Nobody had come in during their talk, which was good.

“How about Herman?” His friend’s other uncle should be around somewhere, Huey would have one heck of a time getting anything from the tall shelves, even _with_ a ladder.

Huey shrugged, slipping the dollar bill into his jacket pocket with a toothy grin “I figure he went to the same place as Gus.”

“Why do you figure?” Scribbly asked, leaning in closer.

Leaning forward as well, Huey whispered conspiratorially, “He gimme dollar too.”

Scribbly swung back on his elbows and let out a puff of air. No Gus, no Herman, no Ma - not yet home from the aviation factory; that left Scribbly officially at a dead end.

“You seen Dinky or Sisty anywheres today?” It was a last ditch effort to ask Huey, the two of them rarely played over at Hunkel’s when Ma wasn’t around.

“Not since school got out.” Huey was starting to sound worried to, “they grabbed a snack and ran off hours ago, why for?”

“I’m startin to worry maybe they’ve been kidnapped again!” Scribbly thought of the last year, when the duo had hitched a ride with none other than the infamous gangster Tubbs Torponi.

“Oh gee, we should call the Red Tornado!” It had only been his timely intervention that saved Dinky and Sisty from who-knows-what at the hands of those outlaws before.

“You’re right!” Scribbly slammed his fist on the counter for emphasis, pausing a moment to shake off the pain.

“He was just outside a little bit ago! He beat up some guys!” Huey raised his small fists and shadowboxed the air “bang! Pow!” There was a momentary panic when he lost his balance and fell to the floor.

“...Right in the alley over there” he said, recovering, “I could see the whole thing!”

Scribbly climbed up onto the wooden bar and peered down at his friend “Which way did he run off?”

“Down that way, toward the drug store” Huey’s voice strained as he attempted to sit back up and point at the same time.

Scribbly dropped down from the counter with a heavy thud. Bolting from the store as quickly as his legs could carry him. There were a couple ways to get from Hunkel Grocery to the drug store, and Scribbly had proven himself quite lucky when the way he ran took him down the same street as the main accomplices of the Red Tornado.

The Cyclone Kids.

Unfortunately, as he was racing down the street, he ran _into_ the dastardly duo. They were bickering over who got the last bit of the ice cream cone they were sharing, and as Scribbly ran right  into the small heroes, the delicious treat was lost in the dirt.

Scribbly wouldn’t get between any child and their ice cream, and he espicellialy didn’t want to get between the Cyclone Kids, who were decidedly not any normal children. They immediately stopped arguing and squared up on him.

“What’s the big idea four eyes?”  The Kid growled, trying to sound threatening despite the squeak in her voice “you got a problem string bean.?”

“No!” Scribbly threw up his hands, still out of breath and stomach fluttering in fear, “no, I’m sorry, but I really need Red Tornado right now!”

Both the kids stopped kicking his shins right away, staring up at him with open mouths.

“You do?” Shouted the Kid on his right, his voice worried and shrill. He grabbed the other Kid by the arm and shook her. “He needs the Red Tornado!”

“He does!” parroted the Kid to his left, voice cracked and nervous. They both reached out and grasped Scribbly’s arm in their sticky, boney fingers..

“Whyfor Scrib?” The boy one asked, pulling at his sleeve.

“Yeah Scrib, whyfor?” The little girl echoed, giving a yank of her own.

Scribbly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I need the Red Tornado for a super important mission. It’s an emergency!”

Scribbly regretted his words the moment they left his mouth, because no sooner had he taken his next breath than the Kids began to yell at the tops of theirs. “NEMERGENCY!” It always started out with one Kid shouting and then was followed by the second running laps around whomever said the unfortunate phrase. Adults were glaring at Scribbly, giving him the stink eye as if he had any control over the Kids. “NEMERGENCY!” in their haste the Kids almost knocked over a slightly older child, who picked up a pebble and chucked it at Scribbly in turn.

“Um, hey?” He started out quiet, and a bit mousy, but the more frustrated he became, the louder his voice got .

“Excuse me? Cyclones?”

“Um, hey? Hey!”

A final shout and stomp “I SAID HEY!”

The two children stopped in their tracks, blinking at Scribbly like a couple cartoon characters. The street in front of the drugstore was also awkwardly quiet. Scribbly balked at the attention, but continued on as best he could.

“Yeah, so uh.” He swallowed. “We gotta find him right away.”

The Kids inhaled sharply again, before releasing another, more contained scream, but this one was accompanied by his hands being grabbed and him being pulled roughly along with the Kids.

“TO THE RED TORNADO!”

Every alley that they ducked into proved to be empty. Runnning from backway to backway, the Kids would always yell “NEMERGENCY!” each time, as if to draw out the hero, but he never showed. Soon they were simply cutting through main streets; running and attempting to stay hidden while still managing to bump into several people along the way.

 

* * *

 

A group of men sat huddled around a circle, cackling with glee and clouding the air with cigar smoke. The faint clack of dice and the rustle of money being passed back and forth echoed softly against the wood and brick buildings of the alleyway. The sunlight that filtered through the canopy of laundry lines and telephone wires didn’t provide enough light for the Kids and their somewhat unwilling companion to see the game or its participants, and they barrelled through the center, knocking away dice and money alike. Scribbly, for his part, tripped over the leg of one of the seated men, his glasses clattering to the ground amidst all the detritus.

“Hey!” shouted the man nearest to Dinky, grabbing him roughly by the fringed collar, “where do ya think you’re running off to, little brat?”

Sisty, seeing her partner in crime fighting hoisted like a small sack of spuds, gave a battle cry that was mostly high-pitched scream and a little bit swear word she probably shouldn’t have known yet and flung herself at the man’s arm, biting and punching. Giving a startled curse, the man dropped Dinky and reaching over with his other hand, grasped her by the collar of her tunic and held her far enough away that the damage she could do was minimal.

Scribbly was doing his best trying to stay out of the commotion. He was worried for the Kids of course, but he knew they could handle themselves. He grabbed the ground around him anxiously, touching everything he could without getting stepped on. His fingers grazed an abandoned five dollar bill, but Scribbly tossed it away with a disgusted groan, feeling nothing but wet paper.

Sisty meanwhile was struggling to get out of the man’s iron grasp. He was cursing loudly, holding her more like a rabid wolverine than a small child, as she spat and kicked directly at his face and neck.

“Kid, calm the hell down I’m-” The man never finished his sentence, because Scribbly, still crawling around searching for his glasses, fumbled into the man’s legs, sending himself, the man, and Sisty flying to the ground.

Once Dinky realized Sisty was, relatively, okay, he was ready to charge. Holding up his fists, he squared up on the man with his butt on the asphalt. But behind Dinky was another of the gamblers, who was taking a break in picking up the fallen money to make an attempt at grabbing the costumed child.

The gambler stopped when he felt a heavy, painful prod in his shoulder, meant to get his attention. He turned, not expecting to see the darkened form of a masked mystery man emerging from the shadows.

Finally locating his glasses, Scribbly looks up and shouts:

“HOT DOG, IT’S THE RED TORNADO!!”

The gamblers were not as happy, the first man to spot her was immediately on the ground seeing stars and cartoon birds. The rest began to scatter as she strode forward, but she was too fast, or too angry, to care. She wrapped her gloved fists around two of the men’s necks, slamming their heads together and throwing them aside like wet laundry. The remaining guy was still on the ground, scrambling to rise when Red Tornado’s yellow-bootied foot crushed his hand as she scooped up the two Cyclone Kids, one in each arm. While he screamed bloody murder however, the Kids happily climbed her arms, perching on her shoulders like two parrots.

Stepping off the man’s hand, the helmeted figure said simply “Don’t touch kids.”

He didn’t waste much time after that, scuttering away like a crab. When the alleyway was clear of all mischief, Red Tornado helped Scribbly up to his feet, so he could finally tell him the situation at hand.

“Mr. Tornado! Thank goodness!”

Red Tornado clapped Scribbly on the shoulder, “Anytime Scrib, what’s going on?”

“It’s Sisty and Dinky!” No sooner had Scribbly blurted out the awful news than the Cyclone Kids started giggling. Unbeknownst to the nervous Scribbly, Red Tornado reached up and nabbed both the Kid’s ears with her hand, they yelped and stifled their chittering.

“They’re missing, Mr. Tornado, I think they’ve been kidnapped!”

There was no stopping the Cyclones now, both had slipped off of their place on the hero’s shoulders, and were rolling on the ground, holding their sides with laughter.

“I er…” she sputtered

 

* * *

  

Ma Hunkel stepped back out of the bedroom, slowly and quietly as her feet could take her on their old wood floors. Dinky and Sisty had been complaining of sleepiness since before dinner, and had refused dessert in favor of an early bedtime. The apartment was unusually quiet this evening, with Huey (presumably) asleep, Gus and Herman in their cots, and with the curtains drawn, muffling the lights and sounds outside.

She made her way into the kitchen that also served as the living room, to where Mrs. Jibbet was sitting at the table, already having poured the coffee. Ma sat down, and sipped at her cup, relaxing for the first time in that day.

“Ya gave yer boy quite a scare”  Ma stirred a little bit more sugar in her cup, deciding to treat herself after all of the stress she had endured.

Mrs. Jibbet didn’t give herself any more sugar, but a modest dollop of cream was her nightly reward. She took her cup in hand and stretched her neck and shoulders, like a mama dove rearranging her feathers.

“Oh my, I know, I feel so badly about it, I _plum_ forgot” Her smooth brow furrowed as she spoke. She was always a bit nervous, but she seemed downright fretful tonight.

Ma placed her drink down and reached across the table, to give Mrs. Jibbet’s hand a reassuring squeeze. When Dinky’s flighty mother had calmed down, Ma resumed drinking her coffee, resting an elbow on the table while she listened to the distant honking of horns and birds overhead. Only when Mrs. Jibbet cleared her throat delicately did Ma reignite the conversation.

“You figure on ever tellin him?”

Mrs. Jibbet snorted out a chuckle. That strange feeling of exasperation mingled with humor found solely in mothers.

“Oh, little Dinky would _never_ forgive me if I ruined his favorite game!”

Ma Hunkel and Mrs. Jibbet got together for coffee often, it was a leisurely activity, and gave them both the opportunity to unwind and hash out a little neighborhood gossip. But this coffee date was proving to be a little too nerve wracking for Ma. She clammed up before Mrs. Jibbet finished laughing, and they both fell back into an amicable silence.

“He told me there were fights today.”

Mrs. Jibbet delivered the statement almost like a question, and it hung heavy in the air. From outside the apartment, a trash can lid crashed on the ground. Ma was now going to have to defend herself and the credentials of her costumed child cohorts.

“Nothin I couldn’t han-”  Ma had only begun when Mrs. Jibbet was ready once again.

“He said Amelia _stabbed_ a man” Her voice wavered the tiniest amount, but her words still hit Ma like a wooden spoon on the knuckles.

“Not a _man_ ” Ma gestured vaguely with her hand, dismissively “a Ratzi.”

This still didn’t pacify Mrs. Jibbet, who tapped her long, manicured nails on the ceramic of her cooling drink.

“Still, are you sure they’re safe?”

Now that was a loaded question if Ma had ever heard one. And she’d heard many.

“Of course they’re not _safe_ ” Ma sounded much more exasperated than she wanted to, but the past year had worn down her faith in humanity. “But they’re not safe without the masks either. Them two was comin into our neighborhood to cause trouble.”

Mrs. Jibbet shook her head, disgust etched all over her face. Nazis had disturbed her even before all the war talk, and she had prayed that a time would never come where they would be in her own neighborhood.

But for now, she didn’t have to worry, so Mrs. Jibbet smiled and clapped Ma’s upper arm in a decidedly unfeminine way.

“And thank you. I swept up the ‘literature’ they left on the road. Who _knows_ what they’d have done if they’d gotten to some kids before you got to them.”

Ma chuckled, looking down to avoid showing any hint of shyness. She tried to remain humble throughout her daily life, but it was hard to not feel pride in what she had accomplished.

“We sent em packin before they could hurt anybody what couldn’t take it.”

Mrs. Jibbet poured another cup of coffee, more to have something to hold in her nervous hands than to drink. Resting her arms delicately on the table, a proper lady even when relaxing. Ma on the other hand had both elbows on the table, resting her face in her palms.

“You know, I love Dinky like my own, right?” Ma spoke so quietly Mrs. Jibbet almost didn't hear her, but when she did, it stopped her immediately. “Oh-oh my goodness I didn’t.”

“No!” Ma put her hands up, struggling to wave off any concerns she had caused “no, not at all! I’m not bein clear.”

The ensuing silence only made the outside seem louder, several more trash can lids crashed to the ground. Ma was thankful it wasn’t her garbage rodents were chewing on.

After a few more seconds of tense quiet, Ma decided to speak again.

“You know I’d die before I let them get hurt. That’s why I started doin this in the first place, right?”

Mrs. Jibbet sighed, a deep exhale in her chest that Ma suspected she was going to have to get used to.

“I know. I know.”

The two women sat then, speaking of this thing and that, about the grocery store about and the other riveters at Freedom Works and about ration stamps. They spoke about Scribbly’s after school job and Huey’s stories. About just how much they miss their husbands. They spoke hours into the night, but the topics of the Red Tornado or the Cyclone Kids didn’t come up again.

**Author's Note:**

> For more of the Golden Age Red Tornado, you can go to https://mahunkel.imgur.com/


End file.
